


inertia

by prions



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, season 4 and onward don't exist sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 18:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21378226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prions/pseuds/prions
Summary: Sometimes, Lance’s thoughts are so loud, that the only way to shut his mind up is to let his mouth run.[alternatively, a non-linear narrative of two space boys, from pre-relationship, established relationship, and beyond.]
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 38





	inertia

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to write something soft and vague and bullshitty a la me, and it’s wild i started this in 2016, brainstormed via line groupchat w my homie, and now it’s *chef’s kiss* disgusting.
> 
> [if this is confusing, it’s written so that each “section” is interlude:past:future and it cycles through these 3 stages. which past is more past? which future is more future? i’ll never tell. ]

For all the classes he’s taken at the Garrison, Lance can only recall a handful of information about physics and the intricacies of space. 

That like charges repel and opposite charges attract, moved by a force that he doesn’t quite understand, but knows exists, can see as he pulls magnets apart and together. But he also knows things without charge don’t force movement at all.

He’d thought that the lingering glances he’d sent Keith were merely that, an opposite set of charges, pulled by some unexplainable force that he couldn’t see, but he knew was there. Like an undercurrent of electricity running in his blood, moving from the darkest end to the red.

And maybe, Lance is some sort of hopeless idealist, to think that a pull like this is the work of the universe, discovered long ago by white men with too much time to think about infinitely small particles that never really touch, but try to anyway. But then again, how much of an idealist could he be if every time he wants to speak to Keith, when he acts upon the urge to hear his voice, and look him in the eye, they ending up arguing.

Sometimes in bangs, sometimes in whimpers.

  
  
  


It’s not a matter of miscommunication, if this is always how they communicate. 

Their conversations are always a ball at the precipice of the highest hill, on the smallest area, ready to roll, roll, _ roll _, at the slightest change in wind, speeding up as it falls.

.

“I’m just saying, Keith, what could be wrong with a little time out into town?”

Predictably, Keith scowls in response. “It just seems a little irresponsible, y’know?”

The day had been rather uneventful, comparatively. Fighting a legion of Galra would make any small skirmish of two and half Galra ships seem easy. Of course, the native occupants of this planet didn’t seem to think so, and thought it apt that the _ voltron squad _, as Lance coined them, deserves a celebration.

To his left, Lance sees Pidge with a cup of deep green liquid in hand, carrying a conversation with, in lack of better terms, a bipedal raccoon in a tailored coat, while Hunk stands beside them, poking a plate of blue vegetables before surreptitiously putting a whole piece in his mouth. Across the courtyard, Shiro and Coran watch with good-natured smiles as the humanoid-raccoon prince of the planet’s inhabitants twirls Allura in his arms while standing on the tops of of a servant’s shoulders. Keith, standing next to him, a cup of the same green liquid in his hands untouched still holds a line of tension in his shoulders, and Lance is struck with want in pulling enough at it to unravel. 

“What do you mean? Are you allergic to fun or something?” 

Maybe, a few months ago, Lance would have been flirting with the first beautiful alien he’d seen on the courtyard floor, but if he’s honest with himself (which, he is, most of the time, you just don’t hear it) taunting Keith has been more fun than being playfully rejected.

There’s just something about a cheek flushed with irritation and eyes filled with passion (violent or otherwise) that gets to him, eggs him on, that forces words into his mouth that he knows will get Keith to really _ steam _.

“No, idiot, it’s just, no one’s watching the castle, and we can’t see it very well ever since the sun went down.”

“Relax, buddy! We beat the Galra for today, we’ve reached our disaster quota, we deserve a break!”

Keith rolls his eyes, with a force Lance thinks could roll the planet under their feet. “I don’t think disaster ever rests,” he mutters, quietly, but loud enough for Lance to know that it’s pointed at him. 

“What a stick in the mud!” Unthinkingly, Lance shoves at Keith’s closest shoulder, offsetting him for the briefest second before he recovers. Lance watches as the tension in Keith’s shoulders bleeds into torso, building into something that looks like anger, if not for the fact that his head was turned resolutely away from him. 

“Whatever, I’m going back to the ship.” 

“Keith!” Lance yells at his retreating back. “What’s your problem? Can’t even relax for one day?”

Resolutely, Keith walks forward, back fading with the darkness beyond the string lights of the courtyard, all despite of the red jacket, snug around his shoulders.

. .

They’re in Keith’s bed, the owner sandwiched between Lance and the wall, breathing evenly into the space between Lance’s shoulder blades. Lance likes being in here the best, likes the way the sheets smell like comfort, like musk, like sweat. Like Keith. 

It’s become a routine. After each terrible battle, injury or not, Lance will stumble his way into the room, into Keith’s bed, knowing that the bed will already be warm, and tucks himself into the sheets. Keith no longer comments on the way Lance’s nose lingers too much in the bedding and in return Lance lets Keith press his face into his shoulder blade without a complaint, letting him rub his face in a way that’s sort of affectionate.

Usually, they lay in silence, letting the atmosphere calm their hearts, but today, Lance can’t stop thinking about Shiro’s screams on the comm, the way they’d lost Pidge’s signal for far too long before the tiniest blip showed up at the castle’s screens, how Hunk could barely stay conscious after a marathon of gruelling hours. He can feel the pricks of tears gather around his eyes, stress bringing down his ability to keep up a cheery or neutral demeanour. It’s quiet in the room, all save for their breathing, but sometimes, Lance’s thoughts are so loud, that the only way to shut his mind up is to let his mouth run.

“One of my brother’s acquaintances,” he starts, and his voice is louder than he intended, echoing off the walls, but Lance has started and can’t stop his mouth. “He was in a motorcycle gang, and said that sometimes, the chase made him so hot, that he’d have to rub one off as soon as he got home.”

Keith’s breathing changes abruptly, and he laughs into the cotton of Lance’s long sleeved shirt. “Lance, what the fuck.”

“It got so bad that he’d crave the chase almost all the time, and his girlfriend at the time thought that he was cheating on her.”

Hands grip Lance’s shoulders, and pull his back onto the bed, Keith lounges above him, staring quietly into his eyes. Keith gives a coy little smile, before leaning down and nosing the curve of Lance's jaw. "So what are you saying then? You high from the fight? You’re gross, Lance--”

“And then, she pointed a gun to his head.”

Abruptly, Keith stops talking and raises his head to look at him in the face, eyebrows furrowed and and the slightest narrowing of his eyes. After a beat, the smile on his face changes into something tender, if Lance thought that Keith, with his hardened demeanor and broiling passion of a personality, could convey tenderness. Idle hands trace the sides of his face and ghost over the lines of his neck, while he continues to speak.

“Needless to say, they broke up.”

Seamlessly, Keith picks up the conversation without prompting. “This reminds me of a time, before the Garrison, there was a guy I knew who was a serial dater, but each relationship was worse than the last.”

Lance lets the words surround him, noticing how the sound of Keith’s voice becomes quiet as he continues speaking, until it’s a gentle murmur. The idle hands from before never stop tracing lines onto his skin, and Lance settles as Keith envelops him with sound, touch and warmth. Words from Keith’s mouth roll and roll and _ roll _ around in Lance’s head until his thoughts settle into a fuzzy whisper in the back of his head.

He can’t recall when he was lulled asleep.

  
  


. . .

  
  


This problem is more about habits, than anything else.

And maybe, Lance is some sort of masochist, because he’s taken to ignoring the lines mark where he shouldn’t cross. 

And maybe this is a result of being in such a big family, trying to be noticed, trying to be remembered that he always makes it a mission to get the last word in, pull a little more, push a bit farther.

But the thing about stubborn objects. 

They won’t move without enough force.

  
  


.

  
  


Sometimes, Lance will catch himself looking too long. One of those sometimes is now. 

Queue, Keith pulling off his helmet, hair dampened with sweat pressed to the back of his neck. Lance staring at a singular bead rolling down between the tight space between the side of his neck and the compression suit, a shine of moisture licked off an upper lip. 

Sometimes, Keith will catch him. One of those sometimes is now.

“Quit staring at me,” Keith grumbles.

“I’m not staring.”

“Oh yeah? What do you call this then?”

“Not staring.”

Keith breathes through his nose, like steam off a kettle, and grips the front of Lance’s compression suit. “Why- why are you always like this?”

But Lance isn’t paying attention, he’s looking at the sweat hooked onto the ends of Keith’s eyelashes, wondering how sweat could even get there, but he’s thinking it’s dripped down from Keith’s brow, and Keith - Keith has stopped talking.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Keith splutters, and Lance should have heard it, the similarity of the sounds that come from Keith’s mouth and the gunning of an engine that hasn’t been used enough, should have seen the advance of Keith’s face but the whole world is out of focus, except for singular details on Keith’s face.

He doesn’t expect the kiss, but the force that Keith puts into it shocks him into clarity. So Lance does what he does best, threading a hand into dark, thick hair, adding a bruising grip onto a wide shoulder, adjusts their mouths to the right angle, and moves.

  
  


. .

  
  


Keith is humming when Lance walks into the common room. Which would have been weird, if it hadn’t been preceded by Lance, waking up in an empty bed, hands fumbling for the living space heater that usually curls up beside him. Lance, turning towards the clock in his room, that Pidge and Hunk had set up to reflect the castle’s internal time to create a fallacy of a circadian rhythm (fallacy because no matter how hard any of them try, a rhythm is one thing they can't achieve), seeing an ungodly hour on the clocks and pulling himself out of bed. 

It's an old song, and Keith is out of tune, and Lance can’t help but slide into the room, grasping Keith’s startled hands. 

“Really, Keith? Santana?”

Keith grins, and Lance can’t help the grin he returns. “Y’know when you sing a song like this, you’ve gotta dance my dude.” 

“You can dance?” Keith asks, laughing.

Lance pulls Keith closer, cupping his cheek and brushing hair in front of tired eyes and tucking it behind his ear. “Have you seen my hips? These babies don’t lie.”

There are shadows under Keith’s eyes that are darker than usual, and Lance knows it’s because of the early days and late nights they’ve put piloting their lions, freeing more planets. When Keith laughs again Lance presses his thumbs into the laugh lines around his eyes and smoothes the pad of his thumb across his eyebrow. 

“Lance, this isn’t really dancing, this is you just fondling my face.” 

Abruptly, Lance pushes his palm into Keith’s nose, frowning. “Keith, don’t use that word, it’s gross.”

“Fine, fine. Let’s just -- just try again.” Keith says.

Keith takes his hands, presses them palm to palm, fingers intertwined. Months ago, Lance could have boasted about his hands, how his mama told him he had beautiful fingers but hundreds of fights with a palm wrapped around the barrel of his bayard has given him callouses that line up with Keith’s, and this, this is just another thing Lance marks down as a similarity Keith and him have in common.

  
  
  


. . .

  
  
  


But for all that he pushes, there’s one place where he won’t go. 

Admitting to the simmer in the bottom of his stomach, when Keith stretches, and a strip of pale skin peeks out that Lance’s eyes automatically seek, is easy. If the first law states that Lance likes looking at attractive people, and it just so happens that Keith is attractive, the second law follows easily.

The feeling in Lance’s chest, though, when Keith wraps an affectionate arm around someone’s shoulders and shows out the tiniest of smiles, the ease of his brow when he falls asleep on the couch after hours and hours of training until god knows when, the curl of his hair that he tucks behind his ear, Lance won’t admit to that.

  
  
  


.

  
  
  


“Did you know that Pidge has tiny hands? Pidge’s got tiny hands, Keith.” 

Admitting would mean that there’s something more to lose, (but something more to gain), but Lance isn’t sheltered, he’s seen things, watched relationships (countries, dynasties) fall apart because of the cardinal rules of the universe. 

_ You can’t gain anything without giving something in return. To gain, something must be lost. _

It echoes in the back of his head, a quote he memorized that now haunts his head among the tauntings of Newton and Murphy, he laughs to himself, hysteric, wild and unrestrained, because even if it isn’t true, somehow _ it still is _.

And Lance already has too much, he has a family who loves him, friends he adores, and a mission now, to complete, he doesn’t want to give anything to get this, whatever _ this _ is.

He feels like he’s dancing around things he shouldn’t and everything is falling apart in his hands and no matter how often he tells himself to be more serious, to take things more seriously, the moment he lets his smile fade all that’s left will be tears.

  
  
  


. .

  
  
  


Lance grips the edge of the medical bed, knuckles white with how strong he’s closed his fist. There’s a part of him that doesn’t believe that this is happening, that refuses that he’s awake, he’s alive, and that he’s seeing this. It’s this part of him that vibrates, makes him shake as if his very soul is rejecting the reality in front of him and is itching to dissipate through his skin. 

But it is real, all of it. 

Hunk’s body, still and quiet laying on the medical bed, breaths subdued, nothing but the tiny rise and fall of his chest.

Pidge, ghostly pale, as if seeing Hunk on the bed, like this, (because he had to leave the pod, Allura said, _ or we risk the threat of a coma _) drained the blood from their veins, the power from the tablet on their lap, untouched. If Lance had a thought to spare, he’d be worried for them, because usually after every mission, Pidge moves a mile a minute, working into overdrive, throwing themselves into their machines and computers at speeds faster than usual, like that would make anyone injured recover faster. Lance feels, rather than sees Pidge’s eyes move to press into the bruising on Lance neck, where Galran hands closed fingers around his throat, and Lance closes his eyes trying to repress what happened earlier from resurging.

_ A routine rescue mission, _ Allura had said. _ Go in, get the prisoners, get out _. 

You would think by now, that he’d know, after everything (the crystal explosion, Allura’s capture, the goddamn wormhole), that nothing is routine. It’s as if the universe wants to see a trial by fire before being saved.

The mission had started okay, had been okay for a while, but Lance for the life of him can’t focus on what happened in between from _ okay _ and _ very not okay _, all he can see behind his closed eyes is Hunk pulling him out of purple hands, shoving him to the side, and the purple-silver gleam of a Galran sword hilt through the gut of his best friend and red dripping down the bright yellow and white of a paladin that may as well be the sun. 

(_ Suns don’t die, mijo, _ the voice of his father murmurs, _ they explode and take everything with them.) _

His breaths speed up, and he knows Keith has turned from watching Hunk’s health monitor to the rapid rise and fall of Lance’s chest. “Lance, we should go rest. He _ will _ be fine, he _ will _ wake up, you _ will _ see him in the morning.” Keith urges him.

Gently, Keith lays his hands over Lance’s, slowly prying his tense hands from the metal of Hunk’s bed, but Lance can barely hear Keith’s soft murmurs in his ear, can only hear the litany of his own thoughts screaming _ Hunk’s bed, Hunk’s death bed, you made this bed and you can’t even fucking lie in it yourself _.

And when Lance is coaxed into bed (not his because he clawed at the doorframe when Keith tried to usher him into his room), his back against Keith’s chest, warm arms holding him, almost reverently, Keith’s chest moving rhythmically and smoothly like the midday waves of Varadero, Lance’s breathing hitches, until it cracks against the column of his throat.

He tries to think of fine white sand, of picnic baskets with fried plantains and cooled Gaseosa, and warm, familiar shoulders pressed against him. But the room is too cool and the chest against his back is too hot, and instead of swimming with his head above the water he feels like the ocean is trying to flow out of him until he chokes.

Breath against his neck, Keith keeps nuzzling him with his nose, and pressing closed mouth kisses to the curve of his shoulders and any other day, Lance would make him stop because this is too intimate for something they haven’t said out loud. Today he needs this.

Idly, he thinks that tears taste like saltwater swallowed in the warm midday.

_ God _, he misses the sun.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Some day, much later, Keith shakes him awake, slides a soft hand with calloused palms into Lance’s own and tugs him to his feet. There’s something gentle in the way Keith looks at him, like Lance is fragile, and hard, searching eyes are enough to unravel the seams that keep him together, and Lance wants nothing more than this softness, this tenderness that he doesn’t have a name for.

“Allura said the diagnostics say he’s probably waking today,” Keith says, “I thought that you might want to be there when he does.”

Lance doesn’t bother replying, instead his footsteps pick up and runs to the infirmary, pulling tightly against the hand wrapped around his. His eyes scan the room and is surprised to see that the whole team is gathered around the bed, and Hunk is awake, and Lance feels his eyes well up with tears once again.

“Hey, buddy,” Hunk says, croaky, but beautiful, perfect, and okay. “Did you miss me?” he asks coyly, flicking tired eyes that seem much too perceptive to where Keith and Lance’s hands are joined.

He knows the tips of his ears are flushed, but he ignores that, and Keith’s spluttering, and rips his hands out of Keith’s only to launch himself at Hunk, rubbing wet eyes at the collar of his shirt.

“As soon as we hug this out, you’re getting back into the medical pod,” he says into Hunk’s chest.

“As soon as I get out of the pod, we’re going to talk.”

  
  


. . .

  
  


He’s like a cup, filled the brim, surface tension pulling liquid so tight to the glass, but at some point the table will shake, or too much will be poured into him and everything inside will go spilling, spilling, spilling to the ground. And Lance doesn’t know when enough will be enough, and maybe he shouldn’t be waiting for that last drop, that last moment before everything flows out.

Maybe if he was more like Keith, with more conviction, and passion and determination or least a modicum of these qualities that he was able to force out honestly, he could let it out. 

  
  


.

  
  


“What do you want, Lance?” Pidge asks.

At this, Lance sighs, pausing in his quest to replace a panel at Blue’s feet. His hands are covered in slick oil, the same texture as the car grease from his dad’s garage, even though the magnitude of distance between his hands and his father’s is immeasurable by the units he knows. “I dunno. Something more I guess.”

Pidge frowns, but it’s a testament to how good of a day they’re having that they don’t smack him with the wrench in their hands. “Okay, so what do you want to change then?”

_ What does he want to change _?

“Nothing,” Lance says, startling himself, “No I just, want _ this _, not to end.”

“What is ‘this’ ?” 

“I don’t know.”

Pidge sighs, and flicks the wrench at his knees, making Lance yelp and scamper away. “I know I said I’d listen to you vent your feelings, Lance, but to effectively vent, you need to be honest with me.”

“But I am,” Lance whines, “I don’t know what we’re doing, and I don’t like not having a name for it, and I don’t like knowing what I want but still feeling like I don’t want anything.”

“Have you ever realized that you don’t need to label anything you don’t want to? That maybe, you just need to, I don’t know, _ talk to Keith _?”

Lance scoffs, and levels an incredulous eye at Pidge. “I don’t want to be _ laughed out of the room _, Pidge.”

Pidge rolls their eyes, and reaches into their toolkit, apparently done with the conversation. 

Apparently not, though, as Lance narrowly dodges a level thrown at his head.

  
  


. .

  
  


In another universe, Keith would leave the bed, let the spot where he laid be warmed by the sun. He would kiss Lance’s cheek, run a hand through brown hair, and Lance would smile and murmur something about seeing him after work. But in space, in this universe now, the room is cold and dark, and Lance stirs, reaches out for him, and tries to grip his hand. 

They both know that this is a day, a movement, a cycle with barely any time for themselves, an even _ worser _ day after a worse day, where Lance’s ribs are lightly bruised, Keith’s cheek is scraped, but they’re defenders and it seems like there’s always another place to be defended. Lance is insufferable, about to succumb to a bad mood but he see’s Keith’s hair, all disorganized and in no way artfully. 

And it’s weird, because seeing Keith in disarray might’ve delighted him before, might’ve made him smug and annoying and gloaty but he’s suddenly bursting inside, like someone’s blowing bubbles into his chest, and they’re popping into little pieces of affection until it’s oozing out of his pores. 

When their hands meet, Lance doesn’t look Keith in the eyes when he says _ would you stay, for a moment, would you care to stay? _

There’s something to be said, a part of Lance thinks, that Keith only says _ sure _, but he also doesn’t leave. And maybe in another universe this would have been a turning point, a confession of a grander scale, said in the kindest of words or the boldest of actions. 

But _ here _ and _ now _is somehow enough.

. . .

When Lance thinks of the rules of the universe, when he recites tiny rules that govern such big things, it’s funny how so much of it moves in cycles. Waves flowing steadily, oscillations that reverb back and forth, flicking into highs and lows.

.

It’s a week with a number under ten in space, he thinks, but Lance has already lost count. He’s already tired of the goo, and maybe tired of the endless dark, but he smirks when he sees a speck of green in the hair near Keith’s cheekbone.

“What are _ you _ looking at, asshole?” Keith growls.

  
And the universe sighs, or maybe everyone in the room does, as Lance takes the goad and _ runs._

**Author's Note:**

> 21:58 reece: but like  
21:58 reece: ok roll w me, if we’re equating the garrison to a space academy/flight school, and we all kno nasa has some high fucking requirements to get into the astronaut program (generally smart, athletic, etc)  
21:58: then lance is not in fact, a complete idiot. this fic, is an exploration of character, perhaps. a look past a facade of goofiness and comic relief, you can't grow up in such a big family without some street smarts or an inability to communicate /with everyone/  
21:58 reece: u kno  
21:58 reece: he gotta be smart  
21:58 reece: somewhere  
21:59 sky: yes
> 
> 12:24 reece: in klance fics  
12:24 reece: why is it always like  
12:24 reece: keith or lance that gets injured  
12:24 reece: like  
12:24 reece: i’m p sure either of them getting hurt would Defo hurt the other  
12:24 reece: but like  
12:24 reece: just imagine  
12:24 reece: klance but hunk gets hurt
> 
> 12:26 reece: idk i feel like seeing someone u care apart fall apart is more angsty than them almost dying idk
> 
> 12:30 sky: yes


End file.
